Hard Time
by Tolakasa
Summary: John Winchester pulled some stupid stunts, but this was a new low, even for him. Spoilers for 9.07.


**Hard Time**

Bobby Singer was up to his elbows in the engine of a possibly possessed but probably just cantankerous old Cadillac when a dark cloud descended on his life and the early spring afternoon in the form of a black '67 Impala.

"Now what?" he muttered, tossing the wrench into the toolbox. He hadn't heard from John since—hell, since last summer, when John had insisted on turning his house into a summer camp yet again. (At this point, it was becoming a tradition; come the end of April, Bobby just started stocking up on kiddie treats.) But it was just barely spring, not even Easter yet. No social worker in the country was going to believe the boys were out of school at this time of year. And while most of his clientele didn't much care, there were a couple of the normals—including a few sheriff's deputies—who would notice if there were school-age kids suddenly roaming the junkyard during school hours.

It wasn't like he really minded having the boys around. Dean and Sam were good kids, and it wasn't like Bobby had to lift a finger to take care of either one of them if he didn't want to, considering just how dedicated Dean was to his little brother's welfare. The kid could even cook, and when Bobby had sent him to get groceries last summer, he'd come back with way more stuff for the fifty bucks than Bobby would have. Nothing stolen, either; Bobby had made him show the receipt. The boy had just managed to charm and coupon his way into that many bargains.

But _still_. They weren't _his_ kids, for fuck's sake. He hadn't signed up for this. And sometimes, the boys were just a painful reminder of what might have been, a reminder he really didn't need.

He reached for the shop towel to get the worst of the grease off his hands, and saw right away that something was wrong. Sam was sitting in the front seat of the Impala. Now, not only was Dean possessive as all hell about shotgun, but that sullen expression was nothing like the sunny little bookworm Bobby knew.

It took him a second to realize that Dean wasn't simply in the back seat, which explained that sullen expression real quick. Sam and John's interactions were getting _worse_ as the kid got older, not better, and without Dean there to play peacemaker...

Bobby really did _not_ want to be there on the day Sam stood up to the old man. It wasn't a matter of _if_—it was _going_ to happen. Thanks to Dean's efforts, Sam hadn't had the independence crushed out of him the way his brother had. And John was so unpredictable these days, even more than he had been when Bobby first met him—

If he started beating one of those boys in front of Bobby, Bobby wasn't sure what he'd do. Kicking the bastard off his property would be the _least_ of it.

There was yelling in the car, muffled by the Impala's sturdy frame and closed windows, and then Sam climbed out in a full-on sulk, going around to the trunk to start unloading stuff. Bobby eyed the duffle that came out suspiciously. Was that Sam's bag? One Army-surplus duffle looked a lot like another.

Just why would Sam need his bag _now?_

"John," Bobby said in greeting, his voice tight, and John marched right past him into the house. "No, please, come in, I insist." He shot Sam a worried glance, but Sam had merely hefted his bag, managed to shut the trunk of the Impala on his own, and was slinking towards the porch. Aspin and Laird came running to investigate, yapping happily as they recognized their favorite playmate, but Sam didn't even look at them.

_Okay, that does it._ Sam _loved_ the dogs. Sam was the one who'd convinced him to name one pup Aspin, even though Aspin had been a Democrat. Bobby jerked open the screen door and stomped after John. "Where the hell's Dean?"

John was rummaging in the old filing cabinet where Bobby kept the rarer herbs. Manners had never been John's strong point, but he usually at least managed to grunt "I need something" before he started rifling. "Not here."

"No shit. What the fuck did you do?"

"_I_ didn't do anything." He held a sprig of something up to the light, squinted at it, then put it back. "If Sammy asks, he's lost on a hunt and I'm going to find him."

Well, if that wasn't the stupidest thing John Winchester had ever said. _I swear, every time I think he couldn't possibly do _anything_ stupider—_ "Where. Is. Dean?"

"The little idiot got himself arrested stealing."

"And?"

"And what?"

"You just left your sixteen-year-old son _in jail?_"

"He's not in jail. He _should_ be, but they've got some kind of group home for delinquents out there. He can stay there. You're keeping Sammy."

Exactly when had it become okay for John to drop his kids off without even _asking?_ Bobby was pretty sure he'd remember giving out that kind of blanket permission. "I am, am I?"

"Like you'd tell me no if I asked?"

The already-impressive list of _John Winchester's Stupidest Stunts_ was getting longer by the second. "Without Dean to manage him? I ain't their dad, John. I've got responsibilities of my own."

"I've got a rugaru to take care of. I can't believe that boy made me stop a hunt like this. Oh, and here." He pulled a battered, stuffed envelope out of his jacket and shoved it at Bobby.

"Yeah, heaven forbid you take care of your own damn kid," Bobby snapped. John just glared at him. The older he got, the more he could shove onto Dean, the more hunt-obsessed John got, and the less Bobby wanted anything to do with him. He was actually surprised John hadn't tried to take Sam along on the damn hunt. "What the—" He scanned the front page. "These are Sam's school records!"

"He'll throw a fit if you don't get him enrolled."

"Now wait just a fucking minute! _You're_ his father, you worthless son of a bitch! _This is your job!_"

"My job is getting that rugaru before it kills again."

"No, your job is being his father! Bad enough you've pushed it all on Dean all these years, but now he makes a mistake and you're leaving him to rot _and_ abandoning Sam?"

"Dean's gotta learn."

Oh, there were a shitload of things Dean _needed_ to learn. This was not one of them. "Are you punishing him because he got caught, or because he interrupted your hunt?" The dark glare he got answered that question. "Fine. Get the fuck out of my house."

"I need wolfsbane—"

"You can get it from some new age hippie store, because you ain't getting it here. You leave Sam here, and don't you _dare_ come back without his brother."

"He's my—"

"_Then act like it!_"

For a second, he thought John might call his bluff and take Sam and leave. But at the moment, with Jim Murphy on a church mission trip somewhere in Central America, and every other hunter they knew out hunting, John had no other safe place to leave Sam and they _both_ knew it. Sam was still too young to help out hunting something as dangerous as a rugaru—undoubtedly the only reason John had bothered bringing him here in the first place. Otherwise, the idiot probably would have just shoved a gun into Sam's hands and dragged him along.

How much longer would it be before he actually _did_ that? Sam was— Shit, Sam wasn't even twelve. Not till May.

Bobby wondered acidly if John even knew when his son's birthday was. "The store is _closed_, Winchester," he said. "You bring Dean back, well, then you can get all the herbs you want. You can make yourself a fucking cup of tea with them, for all I care. But until you get your head out of your ass, you're not getting any help here. That clear?"

John's eyes narrowed. "You'd rather—"

"You don't need me to help you kill a rugaru." He left the second half of that unspoken: _But you do need me to take care of your son, if you're not going to._

John heard it anyway. "Fine. I'll be back when I can." He slammed the drawer shut and headed back outside. A second later, the screen door slammed, followed by a few harsh words that Bobby couldn't make out, and then the roar of the Impala—followed by a growl that he recognized as Aspin. Aspin always was a little too protective of Sam. Kinda like Dean, come to think of it.

Sam was sitting on the top porch step, Laird licking his ear and Aspin half in his lap, watching the cloud of dust as the Impala sped off. He looked like someone had stolen his entire world. The fact that Aspin was just staring forlornly up at him in that tortured-puppy way didn't help the impression.

_John Winchester, you are a son of a bitch, and one of these days, I _am_ going to shoot you._ "Want some supper?"

Sam just looked up at him. There were tears drying on his face. Oh, he knew something was wrong, even if Dean had taught him better than to say so to their father. "Did he tell you where Dean was?"

"What did he—"

"He just said Dean got lost on a hunt, but Dean wouldn't leave me alone to go on a hunt by himself! Dean knows better!"

Right. Hero worship. The kind most kids saved for their _dads_. Even Bobby had gone through that phase, and the less said about that bastard of a sire of his, the better.

And he hadn't missed that _Dean_ was wearing the amulet that Sam had originally claimed as a Christmas present for _John_. He might be an old drunk, but he wasn't an unobservant one.

He hunkered down beside Sam. Laird licked _his_ ear, and he gave the dog a shove. Aspin whined, wanting him to make things better so Sam would play. "No matter what your dad said, Sam, I promise, Dean is safe. He's—" If he told Sam that Dean was in jail—or whatever—Sam might very well run off to find him. The kid might be smart, but he was still a Winchester. Poor judgment seemed to be genetic. "He's just going to be gone for a little while. It'll take your dad awhile to find him." Look at him, lying to a kid like he actually _was_ a father. Karen would be—

Karen would be pissed, that's what she'd be. Pissed that he wasn't shoving Sam into a car and carrying him off to social services so they could find a nice home where the boy was wanted as something more than backup. Where he wasn't a burden to be constantly shoved off on his big brother, who was _still_ too damn young to be a parent. If he'd had half a brain, he would have taken them both to social services the _first_ time John dumped them here.

"C'mon, let's get you settled and get some supper, okay?" Sam shoved the dogs away so he could stand and pick up his bag, and Bobby pushed himself to his feet. "Your dad left your records and all the paperwork, so we'll do the research to figure out which school district I'm in and take you tomorrow morning to get registered. Maybe stop by the bookstore on the way home. How's that sound?"

"Okay, I guess," Sam said as they went inside.

_Okay_. That was all he got. Damn. The bookstore was usually the quickest way to put a smile on Sam's face. It was a treat that Bobby knew damn well he didn't get out on the road. There was a shelf upstairs full of books to prove it, books Sam left here because he had no other place to keep them. John didn't allot space for anything as useless as mere fiction. Folklore, maybe, but what teenager wanted to read fairy tales?

Sam stopped in the kitchen. "Bobby?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Why did Dad say Dean was lost on a hunt? Dean went out to find some food because we ran out of money and he never came back."

_I am not going to punch a hole in the wall. I am not going to punch a hole in the wall. I am _not_ going to punch a hole in my _fucking_ wall._ It took a minute—a _long_ minute—before Bobby trusted his voice. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Every time Dad leaves." There was bitterness in Sam's voice. He was old enough now to know when Dean was covering for John. "He _never_ gives us enough."

Jesus Christ. _I am going to kill that man yet._ Bad enough he was leaving the boys alone, bad enough he was making Dean into the only responsible adult in the family, but not even giving them enough funds to survive? Did he still think they could get by for a week or more on a loaf of bread, a box of cereal, a couple of cans of soup, and a gallon of milk? Dean alone could put another billion on the McDonald's however-many-served sign, and before they left last year, Sam had been showing signs of entering the walking appetite stage, too. Had John forgotten what it was like to be a teenage boy, capable of eating three times your own weight _daily_, if not at every meal? Bobby was older than John, and _he_ sure as hell remembered. Just like he remembered what it was like to _not_ get all the food you needed because of some asshole adult's arbitrary rules.

His stomach clenched, an automatic reaction to any memory of his own father. If things were really this bad, he _was_ going to bring social services into it, and damn John's paranoia.

"I know Dad's mad that he was gambling, but he didn't lose it _all_ like Dad said, he just lost what was _left_, and he was only playing poker because he said we wouldn't have enough to last us until Dad came back."

"Sam—" Bobby had no idea how to reassure the boy, but if Sam didn't quit filling him on the details, the poor boy was going to wind up an orphan, because Bobby would chase John Winchester down and chop him into fishbait. And _then_ shoot him. "Your dad will find Dean. And he'll be okay. Just—you can help better from here, all right? That's why he brought you here. So he doesn't have to worry about you too."

God, he hated lying to the boy. But what else was he supposed to do? Tell him that John had his head stuck so far up his ass that he thought abandoning his firstborn to a stint in some juvenile facility was the best way to make a point about losing a poker game? A poker game the boy was only in because he was trying to keep his little brother fed, the way John _expected_ him to? Sam didn't need him to explain that John was turning into a piss-poor father.

"But it wasn't a hunt," Sam persisted.

"Sure it was," Bobby said, forcing lightness into his voice. "He was huntin' some food, wasn't he?" Sam gave him a look. He didn't buy that argument for a second—but he didn't argue, either, which meant he'd go along with it. Memory was a funny thing; maybe, if everything went right, with enough time, he'd rewrite this into something—benign. Just an early start to one summer at Uncle Bobby's Camp for Wayward Winchesters. "Speaking of which, let's see what I've got. Probably not a lot."

Not a lot. Yeah, that didn't begin to cover it. He opened the fridge and found nine beers, half a stick of butter, a box of baking soda, and two eggs, one of which was cracked. There were some roasts in the freezer, but thawing them out would take hours, not to mention _cooking_ them.

That's right. He'd been planning on going to the store this evening.

"Change of plans. Let me wash up, and we'll go into town. I bet Annie at the bookstore knows what district we're in, and it's next to that restaurant you like, right?" The place next to the bookstore was some wacky kind of vegetarian place run by some hippie wanna-be, which made it one of the few places where Dean _wouldn't_ eat, but Sam was better about vegetables, and it really wasn't half bad. And the fewer reminders of Dean right now, the better. Sam finally nodded. "Get your stuff put up, okay?"

Sam shouldered his bag and trudged upstairs.

Bobby pushed up his hat so he could rub his temple, right where the headache was starting. He wondered if Dean had worried himself into a knot over Sam yet. He wondered if any mere group home could manage a Winchester.

And he hoped that, whatever else this place was, they let Dean just be a kid. Just for a little while.

_**the end**_


End file.
